


Tea and Crumpet

by Ellen Smithee (ellensmithee)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Food Sex, M/M, Squick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellensmithee/pseuds/Ellen%20Smithee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crabbe has an annoying habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Crumpet

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004.

Goyle rolled over and tried to find a comfortable spot on his mattress, but his efforts were in vain. The gritty biscuit crumbs felt like tiny, gravely boulders under his sensitive skin. He thumped his pillow vigorously and glared in the general direction of the culprit, who slept on in blissful ignorance.

Crabbe. The bastard had eaten biscuits in Goyle's bed. Again.

Goyle's scowl slowly turned ferocious as he contemplated his problem. Crabbe had been acting strangely around him recently. The biscuit in bed thing was just a further symptom of Crabbe's mysterious ailment. Sometimes he would watch Goyle with an almost euphoric look on his face, astonishingly like the one he usually wore right before he dug into his favourite pudding. At other times, however, he would glare murderously at Goyle, like the other day, when Goyle was thrashing that Creevey queer. Just when Goyle's willy had gotten all tingly, Crabbe had pulled him off Creevey and shouted at the other boy to bugger off. Then he had stomped away and hadn't spoken to Goyle for the rest of the day, not even when Goyle had stolen one of the third-years' pudding for him at dinner.

Crabbe's bizarre behaviour just had to stop, Goyle thought, nodding decisively. His smile became even more feral as he suddenly knew what he could do.

Next Hogsmeade weekend, Goyle thought, he would ask Crabbe to wait for him whilst he looked for his scarf. Draco would sneer at him and call him an idiot, but Goyle would tell him and Slytherin Boy (so named after Crabbe and Goyle had been unable to pronounce his name first year - Bless? Blaze? Poufy name, if you asked Goyle, and, as it turned out, fitting) that he and Crabbe would catch up later.

Once they were alone, Goyle would wait until Crabbe's back was turned and then he would hit the other boy with a stunning hex. Goyle tried to make a mental note to practice his Stupefy on Slytherin Boy's toad, but he had to stop when his brain got tired of pushing the thick, imaginary quill.

Then what? Goyle puzzled. What would really torture Crabbe? Suddenly, Goyle smiled. Such an expression on anyone else's face might be called "sly" or "cunning," but this was Goyle, so people probably would have just called it "really odd."

He would bind Crabbe to the bed, he thought. And to make it really humiliating, Goyle would strip him first. When Crabbe was bound naked and helpless to his bedstead, Goyle would show him what he'd smuggled out of the kitchen earlier - a plate of ladyfingers.

He knew exactly how Crabbe would react. That intense light would appear in Crabbe's eyes, and he would lick his lips.

"Oh, Greg!" he would say. "Ladyfingers! Let me have one, then, please."

Goyle would hold one ladyfinger tauntingly in Crabbe's face, moving it towards Crabbe's mouth and pulling it away just before Crabbe could latch onto it.

Goyle imagined the mewling sounds his friend - no, enemy, now - would make as he strained to reach the ladyfingers, how his skin would be covered in a fine sheen of sweat and how he would beg for just a little taste of his favourite biscuit; just then, a strange thing began to happen, something that made Goyle panic and freeze in the middle of his vengeance fantasy - his willy hardened!

This occurrence left Goyle somewhat bewildered. For a seventeen-year-old boy, Goyle had a remarkably sedate sex drive. The only girl he found remotely interesting at Hogwarts was Millicent with her cow-like legs, flat chest, and moustache. He had never had special… feelings whilst thinking of her, however - after all, it just wasn't proper to think of the future Mrs Gregory Goyle and the mother of his children in that way.

The only time he'd ever experienced any sort of sexual tingling had been when he'd walked in on Draco and Slytherin Boy in the shower one morning. Slytherin Boy had been on his knees before Draco, and, much to Goyle's confusion, Draco was sticking his willy into Slytherin Boy's mouth. Slytherin Boy's eyes were closed and he was humming whilst Draco held onto Slytherin Boy's hair like reins to control his thrusts. Finally, Draco pulled back and wrapped his hand around his willy. After he gave it a few short squeezes, white stuff squirted out of the hole, just like when the house-elves at his Uncle Fester's farm milked the cows. Goyle was fascinated. He didn't know milk came out of there!

Draco pointed his willy so that his milk was hitting Slytherin Boy's face. Slytherin Boy didn't seem to mind, however, because he just smiled and licked Draco's milk off his lips with a happy-sounding moan.

For some reason, Goyle had found this display strangely exciting. His own willy was hard, just like Draco's. Usually when that happened, he just waited patiently until it went away. Looking at Millicent usually calmed him again. In this case, however, Goyle's heart was beating wildly and a hard knot of something indefinable was building in his groin, making his willy seem to grow and lengthen. Goyle had rushed to the toilet, where he rubbed his willy until the feeling went away and his hand was covered in his own milk. He lifted his hand to his lips and licked it experimentally. He made a face and spit it out. Yech. Didn't taste like milk at all.

At the moment, however, Goyle wasn't remembering any of those key events. As he usually did when his brain was over-stimulated, he simply shut down and let his instinct take over. Right now, Goyle's instinct was telling him that the tightening in his gut at the thought of Crabbe shiny and naked and utterly at his mercy was normal and right. 'Biscuits + tea + milk = happy feelings' was the command his brain was sending to the hand he was now wrapping around his growing erection. At this point, his fantasy about Crabbe took a decidedly strange turn. 

Fantasy Crabbe would gasp when Goyle lightly dragged one of the ladyfingers down Crabbe's thick throat, dipping it into the hollow (well, more like "shallow indentation," in Crabbe's case) at the base of Crabbe's neck and soaking up some of the sweat pooled there. Goyle would continue on down Crabbe's chest, the ladyfinger furrowing its way through the thickly furred carpet of hair. Goyle would spy a tiny nub of a nipple peaking out from the great bushels of sweat-slickened hair, drawing him like a tiny fleshy magnet. As he'd begin to tease it with the ladyfinger, Crabbe would cry out and arch off the bed.

"Oh, Greg! Let me have some, please!"

"No, Vince," Goyle would say sternly. "You've been very naughty. No afters for you tonight."

At that, he would crush the ladyfinger and another and another, until a fine layer of dusty crumbs covered Crabbe's hirsute chest and stomach. Then he would start to lick up the crumbs, using his teeth to worry the hard-to-reach bits that would get stuck in Crabbe's hair. Beneath him, Crabbe would thrash and moan, begging Goyle for a just a taste of the delicious crushed biscuits matting his chest.

Once, Goyle would come up for air, parched by the dry crumbs and his overworked salivary glands. He would take a sip of the hot, sweetened tea that suddenly appeared beside him, gulping it down with a satisfied groan, whilst Crabbe watched his throat muscles swallow.

"Please, Greg," Crabbe would say with a whimper. "I'm so thirsty."

Goyle would take a deep sip of the tea until his cheeks were puffed out like a bald Puffskein. He would lower his lips to Crabbe's, and Crabbe would open his mouth, moaning as the syrupy tea soothed his arid oral cavity. He would attack Goyle's mouth with his tongue, desperately probing the nooks and crannies along Goyle's gums, between his teeth, and under his tongue for bits of the biscuits, like a Niffler grubbing for treasure.

Goyle would pull away and return to his task, working his way down Crabbe's stomach, pausing to suck errant morsels from the other boy's hairy bellybutton. Suddenly, he would become aware of something hard nudging his chin. 

Goyle would pull back and gasp in surprise at the sight of Crabbe's erect truncheon, as long and thick as a Thestral's thingy, emerging like a colossal tree trunk from the forest of pubic hair at his groin, just like when he and Crabbe were in the shower together, and Crabbe gazed at him with that strangely intent look on his face whilst he cleaned his willy with a soapy washcloth. Finally, Crabbe always turned his back on Goyle and, leaning against the wall, clenched the muscles of his arse until Goyle had to run to the toilet to make his own milk.

In his fantasy, however, Goyle would lose no time in wrapping his thick lips around Crabbe's rampant rod, his mouth and jaws stretching around Crabbe's not inconsiderable girth until they ached. Then he would suck, intent on milking Crabbe like Slytherin Boy had milked Draco that time, whilst his hands massaged Crabbe's shaft and balls. As Fantasy Crabbe's milk shot into Goyle's mouth and his Dream Self struggled to swallow down the salty treat, Goyle's real life willy erupted over his hand as he shouted out Crabbe's name.

As the tingly feeling subsided, Goyle became aware of someone sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Greg," Crabbe said in a reasonable voice. "You forgot a silencing charm."

Goyle's ears started to burn. "Oh, um, sorry." He winced and waited for his friend to tell him what a pervert he was. To his astonishment, however, Crabbe just pulled back the covers and climbed into his bed. He curled up next to Goyle.

"Your bed's got crumbs in it."

"Yeah."

"Mine hasn't."

"Yeah."

"Shall we move to my bed?"

As Goyle shook his head, he had a feeling he was forgetting something, something he wanted to tell Crabbe, something the other bloke had done that had annoyed him. But Crabbe was warm, and his big bulk was pressed against Goyle's side, making him feel safe. He smelt good, too, like that evening's dinner, a homey mixture of tripe and treacle. That tingly feeling was starting to come back. Goyle turned to Crabbe to say something and found himself with a mouthful of Crabbe's tongue. Suddenly his willy wasn't tingly anymore, but achingly hard. He wrapped his arms around Crabbe, carding his fingers through the thick pelt of hair on the other boy's back, and pulled him closer.

Crabbe pulled back, gasping for air, with a maniacal grin on his face. He reached under Goyle's bed and pulled out the packet of ladyfingers, which he held up like a trophy.

"Greg," he said, licking his lips. "I want your arse."


End file.
